


What must be protected

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Betrayal, Bickering, Caretaker John, Caretaker Sherlock, Caretaking, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Falling In Love, Moriarty Made Them Do It, Moriarty is obsessed with you, Multi, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Rating May Change, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Romance, Tags May Change, Theft, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>((THIS WORK HAS BEEN REMASTERED - SEARCH FOR "Holmes Sanctuary"))</p><p>After finding a terrified young woman soaked in blood in his flat, Sherlock's protective instincts kick in and he finds himself tasked with caring for her. It's not long before Mycroft catches wind of the situation, and ends up sharing the task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Honey

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write something I can really invest myself in. I worry my writing isn't good enough, so please give me feedback and suggestions.

Of all the things Sherlock had anticipated in his flat, this was not one of them. A young woman stood in front of the fireplace, absolutely plastered head to toe in fresh, dripping blood. John walked clean into Sherlock's back, having failed to notice he'd stopped dead in his tracks. A disorientated grunt came from him, before his breath hitched as he caught sight of the girl. She could be barely older than early twenties, clad in surprisingly casual t-shirt and jeans, which were badly torn, (s/c) flesh bared to the world. Messy (h/c) locks plastered to her forehead, concealing her eyes as she stared down motionlessly at her feet. One of her shoes was completely missing, toes scraped and cut, the other shoe damaged beyond repair. It quickly dawned on Sherlock that she had fallen victim to something horrendous.  
He took a step towards her, only for her to flinch and back away, bumping into the fireplace with a clatter. Her breath came out harsh and ragged as she desperately tried to calm herself.  
"Sh-... Sherlock... Holmes?" her voice was soft, timid, terrified.  
"Yes?" he replied softly, hoping to bring her comfort. She didn't respond, hand slipping into her pocket. Sherlock prepared himself, fearing that it may be a gun or a knife. Instead, she withdrew her hand and at first he believed it to be empty.

Then she opened her hand, a blood stained gold diamond ring resting in her palm. As he stepped closer, he could see ornate engraving pressed into the gold;

_With love - James Moriarty._


	2. The sheets are washed

Upon seeing the engraving, Sherlock's chest tightened painfully. A brief moment of panic flicked over him as he gently relieved the strange woman of the burden. From his proximity, he could smell her - the foul metallic scent of blood and stale sweat, mixed with dry earth and the soft undertones of an aroma uniquely hers. Glancing her over, the pallor of her skin indicated she had been held imprisoned inside for an extended period of time, while her stature suggested she spent much of the time hunched in fear. Her clothes were unfeelingly bland and fit poorly, presumably given to her by her captives. Her hair had also grown out of it's style and her fingernails were long, now badly broken like her toenails, which meant she wasn't groomed in her period of captivity. Everything about her was screaming victim.  
"Help her, John." he choked out, unintentionally demanding, causing his friend to snap to attention and hurry over to the girl. He immediately convinced her to sit in his armchair, and examined her for wounds. Meanwhile, Sherlock ducked out of the room to call an ambulance and Lestrade. Within ten minutes of ending the call, help had arrived. John's initial examination had revealed she had no serious wounds, but was cut and bruised all over and required stitches. In this time, Sherlock observed the stranger as she slowly descended into a stupor, barely responding to John's touches and voice, as a result of her relief. By the time she was hauled off by the paramedics, she was almost unconscious.

Against his better judgement, a griping fear nestled itself in Sherlock's gut and he followed her to the hospital. John had followed him, but he didn't notice until Lestrade's voice called him out of his thoughts.  
"Her name is (Full Name)." he announced, seemingly to the room. "Went missing about six months ago, reported by her boss. We suspected it was suicide."  
"Why suicide?" Sherlock pressed.  
"Well, when we investigated all the signs were there. Isolated herself from her friends, sold possessions off and all that, even left a note." he explained, "Nothing was there to make it look suspicious. Only thing was, the body never showed up."  
"She left a note?" piped up John, surprise evident in his tone.  
"Yeah. Found it in her flat, just said _"I'm sorry"_ , we had it analysed and it was her writing."  
"So, you find a two word note in a missing depressed woman's flat and assume it to be a suicide note?" Sherlock asked darkly, fixing Lestrade with enraged eyes.  
"W-Well, it wasn't _my_ case." Lestrade stammered, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment the door opened.

A timid male nurse stepped into the room, nervous smile on his lips.  
"I am sorry to interrupt, but where will Miss (L/n) be staying?" he inquired, slight Lithuanian lilt to his words.  
"With me." Sherlock affirmed, making everyone around him turn to him in shock. He rolled his eyes in annoyance.  
"With **_you_**?!" exclaimed Lestrade incredulously.  
"Oh for goodness sakes, of course she is!" he snapped angrily, "She's in danger!"  
John cleared his throat, looking incredibly uncomfortable with Sherlock's decision.  
"I'm definitely not letting _that_ woman back into our flat." he said firmly.  
"You're welcome to stay elsewhere." Sherlock growled, taking the paperwork from the nurse and filling out the discharge information. Satisfied, the nurse left to fetch his patient and the room fell silent. Lestrade preoccupied himself with his phone and John glared at Sherlock's back. While John was trying to comprehend what his partner was doing, Sherlock was thinking about how he would accommodate a third party in a two bedroom flat. He'd have to give up his room for (Name), she needed the safety. It wasn't a case that he cared for her well-being, it was more about her experience and what she knew. She had been close enough to steal an expensive item from him, and then close enough to know who to take it to. Clearly she was clever and had extensive dirt on Moriarty, however, he suspected that her post-trauma self would struggle to remember. For now, he'd have to fill the role of caretaker.

"Any family?" Sherlock asked after a moment.  
"A brother, but he's banged up." Lestrade replied matter-of-factly.  
"He's in prison?" John exclaimed in alarm, looking even more outraged at the concept of (Name) staying with him.  
"Yeah." Lestrade sighed. "Murdered a girl after she turned him down, messy business that was."  
"How long ago?" Sherlock urged, ignoring John who had started pacing up and down the room in agitation.  
"Almost two years back."  
"Thank you, George. You can go now." Sherlock dismissed as the door opened again, (Name) being lead into the room by the nurse.  
"Er, It's Greg."  
" _Thank you, **Greg.**_ " he said pointedly, shooting daggers at him. Lestrade got the hint and departed, giving (Name) a gentle smile on the way out. She had been changed out of her ruined clothes, into a hospital gown, and cleaned up. Her previously concealed face was now unveiled. A pair of tired but warm (e/c) eyes were the most prominent feature, drawing Sherlock's gaze immediately, and a pair of surprising soft lips the second. Unfortunately, there were several cuts of ranging sizes and depths, and many dark bruises dotted around her face and neck. Even in her beaten up state, Sherlock could appreciate that she was an attractive woman. Of course, that was a generalised opinion and not his own.  
John, too, appeared to be thinking along the same lines as he made a vague throaty vocalisation. (Name)'s eyes ignored John entirely, resting firmly on Sherlock, as if waiting for instruction.  
"I assume you have no objection to being entrusted to my care?" he quipped, even though she had little choice. (Name) gave a brief nod before shuffling away from the nurse and taking Sherlock's now extended arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I planned it to be longer but it's taken me so long to write orz


	3. When you dress them up

The warmth of Sherlock was enough to soothe all the fright. It was a much needed comfort after months of complete isolation. He was someone you could trust, someone you could depend on. As soon as your arm had wrapped around his, he had adopted a protective stance and guided you steadily out of the hospital. The freezing night air of January London bit into your skin. The thin fabric of the hospital gown, your only possession, doing nothing to protect you. A violent shiver shuddered through you, wrenching a harsh gasp from your throat. Sherlock rapidly unbuttoned his coat, splayed it open and pulled you into his chest. His arms locked around your back, serving both to press you into his heat and to hold the coat closed around you. The heat of his body against yours was intense, like you had stepped into a hot house. You were close enough to smell him - subtle faded cologne, fresh coffee and something unique (and intoxicating).  
Your eyes locked with his companion's. His eyes flashed with anger, or jealousy, you don't know him well enough to tell. He looked away from you sharply and hailed a nearby taxi loudly. You had no idea who he was, but you knew he didn't trust you. Though, it didn't matter to you. The only person who needed to trust you was Sherlock, and he already did.

As the taxi pulled up, you reluctantly pulled away from Sherlock and climbed inside. He demanded you sit in the middle seat, between him and his friend. The smaller man opened his mouth to argue, but the vehicle had already set off. You buckled yourself in, then leaned on Sherlock who was to your right. It was selfish of you to use him for comfort, but you needed it right now. Once his companion noticed, he made an exasperated snort and shifted in his seat, angling away from you. Your eyes had just began to lull shut, when Sherlock's rumbling voice called out to the driver.  
"Stop here a moment, please." he commanded and the driver did as he was told, pulling up to the curb. Glancing out the window you could see a large supermarket a short distance away.  
"John," Sherlock looked to his companion, and you made a mental note of the name, "Can you get a set of women's pyjamas in size (size), 100% cotton, and a pack of women's underwear in (size)?"  
For a moment, John just stared at him with furrowed brows as if confused. As realisation dawned on him, he swore under his breath and unbuckled his seatbelt, then climbed out the door. He slammed it closed angrily, making you flinch in fear. It sounded just like one of the sounds in _that_ place. Sherlock's concerned gaze dropped to you, but you looked down at your hands.

You felt weak.  
Now that you were safe, you had already started to forget your ordeal. The months of that empty, desolate cell with no window, now rapidly fading away. It was both a relief and a loss. All you would remember would be what happened after, but even this night might go, too. Your biggest fear was forgetting who you had been before Moriarty's cruelty. You had dreams and aspirations, you had a life. A budding new romantic relationship, a fresh new promotion at work and loving friends. Then the nightmare had started. There was a foul injustice in it all, and despite your best efforts to remain strong, you had crumbled. At least you had escaped before you fell.  
Now you were at the mercy of Sherlock Holmes. He was your only sanctuary. You knew how deeply Moriarty's grasp on the world ran. The only safe place he couldn't reach was with Sherlock, but even there, it wasn't permanent. One day, Sherlock would fall and you would be alone again. That fear settled deep into your core, and there it would stay, infecting you. There was nothing more unsettling that knowing you'd never out run what you feared most. Your grip tightened on Sherlock's arm.

John returned, climbing back into his seat and setting a plastic bag down. Once again the taxi rolled off from the curb, continuing on your journey home. Your extended exhaustion had caught up to you. As Sherlock helped you up the stairs to his flat, you were already half asleep. He lead you immediately into a bedroom, and you desired nothing more than to dive into it's depths and sleep for decades. Before you could, however, Sherlock began to remove the hospital gown. By it's very design, it was easily removed. The bedroom was cold, making goosebumps rise on your bare skin. He handed you a pair of cotton underwear and you peeled off the scratchy clinical ones the hospital had given you. Sherlock turned away as you did, giving you privacy while he removed the pyjamas from their packaging. One you had put your panties on, he turned around and tugged the shirt over your head. The fabric was pleasantly soft, caressing your abused skin. Next, he managed to slip on the trousers of the pyjama set. You managed a meagre smile at him in thanks, and he returned a kindly one in turn. He helped you clamber into the soft recess of the king size bed, pulling the covers over you and tucking you in. Your head had barely touched the pillow and the room swirled out of your conciousness.


	4. He doesn't think I'm that, does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT - To make things easier to understand, I've made a key system.
> 
> \-- will indicate a time skip  
> ** will indicate a change in POV  
> -* will indicate both time skip and POV change

He came to you in the dark. Malicious face hovering just inches from yours, his fiery hot breath on your skin. It was time to play his favourite game "how long could he strangle you before you passed out". He'd guess how many seconds, then the game started. He'd press his thumbs into the hallow of your throat, and he'd count out slowly. _One. Two. Three..._ at first you'd just stare at him, unflinching. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a struggle. But the longer his tight grip remained, the harder it became. Survival instinct would then burst forth, powerful and bright, forcing you to panic and thrash, struggling against your restraints to try to claw his hands away. You were always powerless against your bonds. _Thirty eight. Thirty nine. Forty. Forty one..._ Your senses would begin to fail at that point. His slow, unfeeling counting would become faint and disjointed. You couldn't concentrate. Those dark, soulless pools he had for eyes would rapidly become the only thing you could see. Then they'd be consumed into nothingness too. _Fifty three. Fifty four. Fifty five..._ Your last thoughts were hopeful. Maybe this time, he'd finally have gone too far. That he'd miscalculate and you'd die.  
Moriarty never made mistakes.  
A raised voice sent Moriarty scattering away like dust. Suddenly, your senses burst back to life as if Moriarty had never been there, along with your bonds. The room shifted into a bright, white walled room with a huge window. Sunlight was flooding through it, blotting out your sight with it's glare. In the haze, the silhouettes of two men stood a short way apart. One was angled towards the other aggressively, as if he intended to fight. The other simply peered down at him, placid and unyielding.  
"I refuse!" the aggressive one boomed. "Send her away immediately!"  
" _No._ " the other replied in a tone of resignation and quiet frustration. At this point you tried to speak up, to ask for help. To implore them to let you stay. No words come out and your hand darts to your throat. Something icy cold and metallic is clamped there, and you notice a line of heavy titanium chain links leading away from you. Following it with your eyes, it rises up into the air at the end and you see that the placid man has it clenched into his fist. He's your master now.  
Somewhere from the deep, dark recesses of your mind - Moriarty laughs.

Your eyes burst open, immediately you gulp in desperate breath after desperate breath. Quickly you realise that you had been asleep, and had stopped breathing. Moriarty's presence had been just a dream. Reality crashed around you. Here you were, laid in a stranger's bed, coated in sweat and utterly terrified. You might have escaped captivity and endless torture, but you hadn't escaped Moriarty. _"You're mine."_ he'd whispered into your ear, _"You'll never not be mine."_. Realising just how right he was, made you want to scream and cry. You held back. You'd never give that to him. Never let him _win_.  
Some dark part of you told you he already had.

Coming back to the now, you became aware of your all consuming thirst. You had been given water at the hospital, but that was hours ago. Since then you'd slept and sweat a great deal, which contributed to dehydration. Slowly, you search the darkness in hopes Sherlock had bought you water, but he hadn't. Knowing there was none to be had in here, you slip out of bed and pad nervously to the door. Briefly, there is silence. Then a raised voice swells up from beyond.  
"I can't believe this, Sherlock." A voice you assumed to be John's spoke. "She can't be trusted."  
Your stomach lurches and you realise the words you had 'dreamt' had actually been real. You began to panic. How much did John's opinion matter to Sherlock? If he indeed mattered, which you expected he would since he lived there, would he convince Sherlock to turf you out? If that was the case, it was game over. It'd take no more than three days for Moriarty to get you again. And when he did, his previous games would seem like child's play compared to what he'd do then. You hesitated, wondering whether you should crawl back into bed and accept your fate, or go out there and talk. If you just let them know a fraction of it all, then maybe you could stay. You chose to get back into bed. You turned, took a few steps and were half way back to bed when you remembered your thirst. You swallowed, your throat felt like it was made of sandpaper. You span around on your heel and yanked the door open.

The hallway beyond was in total darkness. There were no windows, only doors. Newly developed fear of small, windowless rooms made you dash down it quickly. A source of light was creeping down it from one end, so you made for it. It lead you out into the dimly lit main room of the flat. There, Sherlock was stood in front of one of the large windows, peering out across the street. Their glassy appearance revealed him to be deep in thought. John was pacing back and forth with surprising silence. At first, neither of them noticed you. You looked on nervously, sincerely wishing you weren't so dehydrated. John finally threw his hands into the air with a cry of exasperation, before throwing himself into an arm chair. Sherlock slowly turned to face him, but caught sight of you as he did. His interestingly shaped lips parted, as if in mild surprise. Your locked your eyes with his briefly, before scanning the room and spotting the kitchen sink. You darted for it, thrusting your mouth under the cold tap, and turning it on. Icy jets of fresh water spilled into your awaiting mouth, and you almost cried with relief.

**

John looked up at Sherlock, having seen him turn to say something, but then never had. His brown eyes bounced off Sherlock's, which were focused on something near the door, and landed on you. However, you suddenly darted forward, causing him to leap from his chair. He braced himself, ready to fight you, but your attack never came. Instead, he observed as you began to hungrily lap up water fresh from the tap. A pang of guilt strummed though him. It was short lived. No matter how convincing you seemed, you were a lie. A threat sent by Moriarty to spy on him and Sherlock. A clever disguise of damsel in distress. Well, Doctor John H. Watson was not going to fall for it. The memory of being strapped to explosives, snipers aiming straight for him in a closed swimming pool was too fresh in his mind. Anything to do with Moriarty was dangerous. He'd much rather it be as far away from him as possible.  
Once you'd had your fill, you straightened up and turned to them. Droplets of water had ran down your chin and neck, partially soaking your shirt front. Using a badly scratched up hand, you wiped away some residue from your mouth. Sherlock seemed to spring to life, hurrying to the fridge to take out the meal he had Mrs. Hudson prepare earlier. It was little more than some cutlets of cold meat left over from dinner and a salad. He urged you to sit on the couch and handed you the food. John observed coldly as you tore into it as if you hadn't eaten for months. He had to hand it to you. You were a convincing actress.

Feeling disgusted, he tore his eyes away from you. The less he had to look at you, the better. His gaze fell onto Sherlock instead. The familiar, angular face of his boyfriend made him feel better. Even though he was bitterly hateful to his house guest, looking at Sherlock reminded him he had a heart. His anger was necessary. Protecting Sherlock was his primary concern and by all means, you were a huge threat. Yet, somehow, for all his genius, Sherlock couldn't see what he did. It was frustrating John. Since you had gone to bed, they had argued heatedly about the situation. John had threatened to leave thrice, each time Sherlock had allowed him. To John, it seemed like Sherlock was choosing you over him. He hated that. Hated feeling inferior. The darker part of his mind kept chanting that he was inventing a threat to mask his jealousy. That little niggling fear that Sherlock might fall in love with you. It was preposterous!  
Sherlock loves John. He'd said it enough times. _"I love you, John Watson. You're absolutely wonderful!" Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing John by the shoulders and tugging him close, pressing an adoring kiss to his forehead._  
You couldn't change that. John wouldn't let you.

A sigh of relief and the clatter of cutlery alerted John that you had finished. Sherlock swept over and whisked your plate away. It was uncharacteristically diligent of him and it grated on John's nerves. Sherlock disappeared into the depths of the kitchen, and John finally met his eyes with yours. Your face contorted, scrunching up and tears springing to life in your eyes. Some genuine fear flooded from you as your lips parted, and he heard your voice for the first time.  
"Please... Please don't send me away." you begged in a voice so raspy, so disused, that it pained him to hear it. John gaped at you, eyes wide in shock as he saw a mirror of someone he once was. He'd just returned from Afghanistan, homeless and crippled. Plagued with nightmares, jumping at every loud noise, always looking over his shoulders, unable to relax. Every day was arduous. The only friendly, understanding face he saw was his therapists. Then, just like he had with you, Sherlock showed up out of the blue and rescued him. An overwhelming sense of understanding and unity came over him, and he found himself making a promise he thought he never would;  
"I won't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my chapter titles are lyrics from a song that helped me get inspired for this.  
> If you can find out which one, consider it an easter egg!


	5. IMPORTANT NOTICE

ANNOUNCEMENT

I am immensely dissatisfied with the way this turned out. So I'm remastering it and posting it as a new work. This is here for the people that enjoyed this, sort of as a historical piece or something.

Link to the new work: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5791069/chapters/13347046


End file.
